Making Headlines
by Jentle55
Summary: Everybody has a history. Some are just more public than others. This story looks back at the events that lead up to Megamind's spiral into evil.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: **Hey there everybody! YAY New Story! I've always had a big thing for pre-movie Megs, specifically looking at why he ended up the way he did. And then this plotbunny hopped out at me and forced me to start writing immediately! So here is the first chapter of a fic which I am entirely making up as I go along. I'll be doing a lot of experimenting with different narrative styles and challenging myself a bit in writing for this fic, so I hope it works out alright..

**Warnings:** This was supposed to be... funny and somewhat cute, maybe just a little bit sad. And well... it kind of found a mind of its own and suddenly became angsty, cripplingly sad, and at the end, creepy as all get-out. Only implied foul language, and some violence. This chapter has some splashes of 'Horror' and 'Angst' as one reader hinted for me! So be prepared for a little bit of nightmare fodder.  
><strong><br>Disclaimer:** 'Megamind' and all its characters are owned by _Dreamworks. _I own nothing.

* * *

><p>The small screen crackled and hissed with snowy static, the mesh of white and black pixels dancing shadows violently around the room. The noise was constant, grating and shrill. Until it cut out suddenly, the picture clarifying into the image of an empty room.<p>

The screen swam with residual feedback; jumping lines of grey bisecting the images and travelling slowly up and down, as if the labour of offering a clear picture was almost too much. Finally, the tape seemed to warm up to the idea of fulfilling its purpose, showing a clear, if not aged image of a grey room. There were no windows. No natural light. It was small, little more than eight feet by ten. There was evidently a light source somewhere, because harsh illumination reflected off of a steel table directly in line of the video feed. The soft hum and flicker of a fluorescent bulb answered the question of where said light was coming from.

The video's point of view appeared to be anchored to the table itself, because the slick surface of the furniture seemed much too close, and much too small for the camera to be anywhere else. It was trained on a lone chair opposite, metal and rigid and unforgiving in its construction.

A click, scrape and soft slam could be heard to the left of the camera, followed by the shuffling of feet. A door had been opened and someone entered the room. The video suddenly shuffled wildly, muffled sounds of contact reached the audio until a face came into view, dark at first as the camera feed adjusted to being pointed upward, the harsh light at the individual's back. But soon, the screen focussed in on a rounded, harsh face, frowning down into the lens.

A man, perhaps in his late forties, glared into the screen, pausing a moment while balancing the camera in one hand, to push up the square, wire rimmed glasses perched atop his nose. A dark beard was shaved close and short to his jaw and he wet his lips with something like apprehension.

"My name is Dr. Arnold Stewart. I am working with the Metro City Prison for the Criminally Gifted as the attending psychologist. Today I will be conducting the first of many interviews with... ah... with the subject," he explained, somewhat awkwardly into the camera, shifting it around again as he evidently took a seat in an unseen chair. Finished with his introduction, the camera swung violently once again, before eventually shaking back into its original position, as if placed on a mount aimed squarely at that still empty chair. The doctor, now off screen, could still be heard, shuffling in the chair that sat him directly to the right of the camera, the edges of his papers and a manila folder occasionally darting into view.

He cleared his throat loudly, and the same click, scrape and slam could be heard to the left, the door opening and closing. The shuffle of feet was louder, and a clink of metal accompanied it this time. There was a murmur of voices, and then, the empty chair was no longer empty.

A large blue head peeked over the shiny surface of the table, doe like green eyes wide and filled with a mix of apprehension, curiosity and fear. Two bodies, their heads out of frame, in blue and black guard uniforms stood to either side of the tiny being, whose small, chub nose could barely make it over the edge of the table once seated in the stiff chair. But the over-sized bald cranium was definitely in frame.

"Can you get something? It's too short," a voice mumbled out of frame, evidently the doctor, and one of the armed guards, his baton black and gleaming in the harsh overhead light moved off screen. The other remained stationary.

The first returned quickly, the second grabbing hold of the small subject and lifting him bodily by his arms, so what seemed like a stack of phone books could be placed on the seat. Once completed, the small being was dropped down again, now sitting in perfect view.

It was a toddler, at first glance. Aged perhaps roughly three or four years. Baggy, oddly stitched orange clothing hung on its small frame and the collar practically swallowed its neck up to its ears. Chubby hands, just beginning to slim of baby fat clutched a clear globe nearly the size of its giant head. A fish, unlike any seen before, blinked out of the sphere of glass and water with brown eyes that seemed knowing, and at the moment, untrusting.

Aside from the blue skin, and the hairless tall scalp, the being's features were surprisingly human-like, pinkish lips pursed tightly together and shoulders hunched in its prison garb, modified for its small size.

"Let's begin," the doctor's voice began, drifting in from off screen, and the little boy, as it became obvious, gave a half startled jump, pudgy fingers squeezing hard on the globe in his lap. His little throat bobbed.

"How old are you?"

At first, the little boy didn't speak. Merely stared, wide eyed, shuffling on his improvised booster seat. The giant eyes shifted unsurely toward something off camera, before lowering his chin a fraction of an inch.

"How old are you?" the question was repeated.

"1189 days," was the mumbled answer, the voice soft and small, eyes still shifting though the toddler had straightened its spine a fraction in bravery.

There was a pause.

"In years."

"3.26 years. Round'd up," the boy responded, pausing only briefly to add the last bit as if in a hurry to clarify, perhaps based on the reaction he received from the number. He looked at once hopeful, and terrified.

"Do you know where you are?"

"...In a room?" the child asked, scrunching up his face in some sort of uncertainty, as if struggling to understand the meaning of the question. He spoke clearly, in full sentences, but his voice remained thin and childlike.

"Do you know where this room is?" The questions are asked in a flat voice. No emotion connected.

"Oh. Metrocity Prison for the Crim-in-ally Gifted," the toddler says, somewhat relieved.

"Metro City," the doctor corrects, dead pan.

"Yes," the boy responds, quietly, pink beginning to spread across his fat cheeks. He fixes his grip on the ball of glass, the creature within tilting its body so the large amber eyes are up toward the boy. The mouth seems to stretch in what can only be called a kind smile, if it were possible for a lower-life form to perform such an expression.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"'Cuz I landed here," is the simple response. Then the boy's face seems to shift, something like sad realization spreading over his features. He looks down. "Oh. Ya mean _here_," he elaborates, eyes half lidded while avoiding the gaze of both the camera and the man.

"I'm here 'cuz I'm diff'rent," he whispers more to the fish than anyone else in the room. He shifts on the thick books and hunches in on himself.

"We're going to do some tests now."

"Tests?" The boy dares to look toward the doctor now, unease on his small, knowing face. Far too much recognition is there to be normal, for a child his age.

"Yes. Tests. I want you to read these equation cards and tell me what the answer is."

What follows in the tape is an hour of flash cards; the cards are never seen, but the boy's attention is firmly on them where they are held off screen. He sits up straight, eyes riveted, flicking across numbers and answering with only a few seconds in between each shuffle of card stock that can be heard to the right.

"4. 6. 2. 10. 15. 0. 28. 91. 187. 312. 895. 5,762."

With each new question, the boy responds quickly. Never receiving any feedback about whether the answers are correct. His advanced diction of complex words is never questioned, rewarded, or commented on. But the boy doesn't seem to need the approval. His responses are said with confidence, never with a questioning lilt. He responds with certainty.

The questions appear to become more difficult as time moves on, the numbers growing, and sometimes his response time grows as well. But not nearly as much as his enthusiasm does.

He begins to smile, excitement making him bounce eagerly for each new question. By the end, he's leaned forward, hunger shining in his eyes, a smile dimpling his cheeks.

Then, the last question seems to take him more time than the others. His brow knits with concern and concentration. But then, a smile more brilliant than all the rest flies across his face and he opens his mouth, giddiness and delight shining in his eyes.

"That's enough for now," the voice cuts him off and evidently the cards disappear, and the joy drains from the boy's face, being replaced with dismay. He is never given an opportunity to answer. He slowly sinks back into his chair; gaze once again on the floor, shame clear in his features. The fish, if possible, glares toward the camera.

"Tell me what these shapes are," the next command is issued, and the boy darts eyes towards the camera, but the enthusiasm is gone. His voice is a whisper, a half mumble out the side of his mouth.

"A square. Circle. Hexagon."

* * *

><p>The room is grey. There is only a table, and a chair in view of the camera. There are no windows.<p>

A door opens to the left, and there is shuffling. An orange and blue mass of colour drifts by as the camera struggles to focus, blurring the image briefly before finding the correct ratio.

It is the same boy, tall head, blue skin and hairless scalp staring at the camera. He fills out the orange jumpsuit better than before, but it continues to hang on his slim frame miserably. His eyes remain large and green, but less scared than the last. Age sees him grown, more comfortable, less fear shining on his gradually slimming face.

The fish is on his lap.

Chains are on his wrists.

"How old are you?"

"Five and a half," the child responds firmly, as if now accustomed to the question.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Metrocity Prison for the Criminally Gifted."

"Metro City."

"Yes."

"We are going to do some tests today."

"Alright."

More cue cards follow. More numbers. More shapes. The boy responds easily, saying no more, nor less than required. He sits primly, sternly, almost studious. There is little joy on his face. It's all business.

And then even more questions.

"Do you know the difference between good and bad?"

"Yes," the boy responds, tilting his head in a curious fashion, dark eyebrows drawn down unsurely, as if trying to decide whether the question was a trick or not.

"What is good?"

"Loyalty. Respect. Remembering where you came from. Fighting for what you believe in."

"And bad?"

"Disrespect. Betrayal. Punishing those who don't deserve it."

"Do you know someone who is bad?"

The boy thinks on this, frowns, and then glances to his left and right, at the uniformed bodies to either side of him. His frown grows stronger.

"I don't know," he manages slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. His expression reads the opposite. He knows, but does not say.

"How about the prisoners in this prison. Are they bad?"

"I. Don't. Know," the boy responds firmly in a clipped tone, almost aggressively, his frown tripled in effect and his eyes dark.

"Do you know someone who's good?"

"I don't know."

"Are you good or bad?"

He doesn't answer now, and simply continues to frown and glare.

"I don't like these tests anymore," he explains and starts to stand, but both of the guards move to hold him down. He stares a bit disbelievingly at the hands on his shoulders and finds himself forced down into his seat once again.

"You can't leave. There are still more tests. Now, I want you to look at these pictures and tell me what you see."

The boy is visibly upset now, a mix of anger and fear flashing across his face. He tries once more to stand, but this time is roughly pushed back into place so the chair rattles on its legs and the boy makes a small strangled noise akin to discomfort. The fish spins in its globe, agitated, the water frothing with bubbles. The boy clutches the creature closer, protectively, glaring around him before his eyes flicker toward the camera.

He does not try to stand again.

"...I see a bat," he responds, sullen, resigned, hunched in on himself.

* * *

><p>The tape whirrs to life, cutting through static to the same room, the same table, the same chair.<p>

The door clicks, and scrapes open like before, but there is no shuffling. There is stomping, a flurry of movement, and screams. Wild, angry, hateful, desperate screams. The noise is almost deafening until the camera adjusts.

The boy is dragged into frame, bodily, by two blue uniformed guards. Their faces flash momentarily into the low camera angle as they struggle to contain the blue youth. He is taller now, infinitely slim, and wild.

He kicks, screams, thrashes and bucks his body manically, arms pinned behind his back by the larger adults. They try to contain his madness, but he is fast, limber and crazed. They barely manage to bring him toward the table before he throws himself against it. The table rocks, tipping the camera from its podium so the image scrambles briefly from the impact. The image is now on its side, the table appearing vertical as the chair clatters to the ground from the guards violently trying to slam the boy down onto its seat.

"Give him back!" the boy is shrieking, emotion making his voice high. "You can't take him! Give him back!"

"Calm down!"

"You can't DO this!" the boy wails, tears streaming down his face, exertion and crying turning his once blue cheeks a mottled mess of flushed reds and purple.

"I said calm down or we'll have to use force!"

"MINION! MINION WHERE ARE YOU?" the boy is screaming again, kicking madly at one officer while the other lifts him bodily from the ground by his twisted arms, the pressure of the lift making his small spine bend drastically. The pose looks agonizing. And the boy shouts his pain.

"This is your last warning! Stop struggling NOW!"

"You can't do this! You have to give him back! You can't take him!" is the only intelligent response hollered by the youth, as he continues to thrash before suddenly slamming his large head back against the officer behind him.

A spurt of blood, a wild curse and the crack of cartilage rings out right before the boy is slammed, hard against the table, his face in direct line with the camera. His gasp is loud and filled with pain, his eyes going wide and pupils dilating as he struggles to catch his wind again.

He is pinned by the two men, one with a broken nose who lays an arm across the back of the child's fragile neck, pinning him in place.

Once the air is back in his lungs, he continues to scream, wail and cry, struggling valiantly against his aggressors.

"Doc, hurry!"

"Alright, I'm here."

Hands enter the camera frame, pulling at the orange clothing to lift the back of the boy's shirt and pull one side of the bottoms down around his hip. He fights even more, fear flashing in his eyes as he struggles to see behind him.

"No! Don't! Please!" he begs, tears filling his eyes and spilling messily down his cheeks, smeared against the table when his face is pushed down hard once more into its surface. The rage is gone. Now only terror. Desperation.

A needle flashes in the light, striking home into the flesh of his lower hip. It is the only area on his skinny body where even a little fat resides.

He screams his rage and pain and misery into the camera, but is still held down until slowly, slowly, he calms. His wails become cries. Then sobs. Then whimpers. Then whispers. And finally a glazed look passes over his face. He is trembling as he lays, his breaths short and sniffling.

"Minion," he whines in the voice of an infant before he is lifted, slack muscled and bruised, out of frame. The camera shuts off quickly after.

* * *

><p>"I'm going to look at a card now, and you tell me what shape I'm looking at," the doctor states as the camera comes to life mid-way through a session. The boy is aged again, perhaps ten years, or eleven. He sits taller at the table, the fish no longer on his lap but oddly enough sitting on the table to his left, in a modified coffee can. The top of the can holds the large orb, and the fish blinks silently from its depths. A trio of lights line the can just below the tank, yellow, green and red. There are holes in the can, one on each side, but there is nothing attached. Just holes. An officer stands off to the side, four pieces of hinged metal clutched in his hands. Two end in thin clamps, the others in primitive flat bends of metal, much like feet. They match the metal of the tin can.<p>

The boy stares blankly at the doctor off screen after his command, barely contained confusion swimming over his thin face.

"What?"

"I will look at a card from this deck, and you will tell me what card I am looking at."

"But I can't see the card," he interjects, exchanging a troubled look with the fish, who bobs in the water in what can only be considered a shrug.

"Just try to tell what I'm thinking," is the response, to which the boy frowns.

"I'm not psychic."

"Just try."

"It won't work. I'm not psychic."

"What card am I looking at?"

A heaving sigh and the boy glares.

"I don't know. The Jack of Asses? I can't see the card, you idiot. I'm. Not. Psychic."

Silence now for a long time, as the camera focuses on the boy's un-amused expression.

Then it clicks off.

* * *

><p>The youth is already there when the camera blinks to life. He is a teen now. Moderately short. Thin and wiry beneath the same orange uniform. His neck is long and slim, his limbs similar as he has his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the long blue arms. They are crossed over his chest and he is leaned back in the same chair, the shackles resting lazily on his stomach.<p>

A trail of dark hair is beginning to show on a suddenly angular chin.

He is alone.

He glares at the camera.

"How old are you?"

No response.

"How old are you?"

Silence.

"I won't ask again."

"I won't ask again," the youth mimics, pulling a face and speaking in a high, reedy and mocking voice.

"I said, how old are you?" The question is now ground out between clenched teeth.

"I thought you said you wouldn't ask again." He smiles, a dark wicked grin of amusement.

"I'd suggest you cooperate."

"And I'd suggest you go suck a tail pipe." He is gleeful now, eyes vivid, green and laughing though his mouth remains curved in a motionless grin.

"Do I need to call in the guards?"

"Now why would you go and do that?" the youth pouts, but his eyes remain teasing and mirthful. "That would spoil all the fun! Besides. I'm not doing anything wrong, am I Doctor? I'm not being uncommunicative at the moment. Aggressive. Belligerent. Isn't that what my file says? Displays psychotic behaviour, appears anti-social, potentially sociopathic?" He is smug now, joyful, still in the same leaning posture although he tilts his head to the side imperceptibly.

"... How did you get those files?"

"Do you really want to know?" he all but purrs.

"Those are confidential and restricted."

"Doc, it's a prison. Nothing here is ever confidential. 16," he adds the number at the end with a smile, which has nothing to do with being polite.

"What?"

"16. My age. You asked my age. My, you are forgetful. How long have you been a psychologist for? Maybe it's time to hang up the ol' clipboard Dr. Stewart. Can't have you running around forgetting client's names and things."

The jabbing comment is ignored, and the voice is now hard and bitter.

"Where is your fish?"

"What fish?" Innocence in his voice, but a knowing smile across blue lips.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"I can't say I have a clue, Dr. Stewart. Have you ever heard of Alzheimer's? You might want to get tested."

There is a slapping pound of skin hitting the table, and the camera vibrates. The doctor's hand appears in the corner of the frame, flat against the table where he slammed it, and his voice is tight with anger.

"Where is your Minion? You escaped, and we found you. But where is he?"

"I am really at a loss for what you could be talking about Doc," the teen blinks, and spreads his hands as far as he can with the shackles connecting them. He is un-phased by the anger, and in fact he smiles a wide, white and bright grin towards the man, clearly amused.

"God damnit! Stop playing games! We know he's out there helping you, now where is he?"

"You know," the youth suddenly frowns and leans forward, motioning for the doctor to do the same. He knits his dark brow with some concern, but the false emotion never reaches his eyes which remain mischievous. "I can't help but feel like this is more of an interrogation than a therapy session. You're not being very objective. Bad practice for a psychologist."

"You son of a bitc-"

"Ah-ah-ah!" the blue individual chides, putting up one finger to forestall the man's words, waggling it back and forth. "Not very professional language Doctor. Maybe I should report you to your governing body. Can they take away PhD's? I should look into that." And he is thoughtful, tapping one finger against the growing goatee on his chin, and then he pouts toward the older man, his expressions animated and theatrical.

"Aww, don't look at me like that Doc! Oh, I know what will cheer you up! Did you want to do some ink blots again? Some good old Rorschach tests always brightens the mood! No? How about you do a risk assessment on me again? THAT was pretty fun, huh? I could pretend to be suicidal! Oh oh! I have an even BETTER idea! Shock therapy! How about a trans-orbital lobotomy! I heard bleeding practices were pretty popular back in the day too!" he exclaims gleefully and then begins to cackle with delight, leaning back in his chair and laughing heartily for such an extended time that the doctor's hand clenches and drifts off frame.

"We're done here," the older voice comments softly, but the youth doesn't seem to hear or care, as he is doubled up with laughter, clutching his stomach and guffawing heartily even as the tape clicks off.

* * *

><p>He is a man now, sitting in the same chair, in the same room. Young, but an adult. He has gained height, his shoulders have widened, and the expression of his face speaks of hardened years. He fills out the orange jumpsuit better than in any other video, but he remains thin and lithe. The collar is flipped up high around his slender neck, the faint cording of strong musculature noticeable under the soft blue skin.<p>

His hands aren't visible below the table, but as he shifts into a comfortable position, the jingle of chains and metal can be heard from around his wrists and feet.

But he is in an awful state. One eye is swollen shut with dark black and purple bruising. His lip is split, swollen and sliced with an angry red line. A set of butterfly stitches rests along a sizeable gash on his brow. He is battered, bruised and still.

Yet he grins. Constantly. A dark and villainous smile, eyes riveted on the camera, vibrant neon green under dark black lashes and brows.

"I am 23," he says suddenly, before a question can even be asked, and his smile only grows, despite the obvious pain it must cause his mouth.

There is what can only be called shocked silence from the other side of the room, so he continues, conversationally but with a voice like ice. Overly friendly. Cruel. Mocking.

"How rude of me. I've never asked you. How old are you, Arnold?"

"It's Dr. Stewart."

"My apologies. Dr. Stewart. Do you know my name, Dr. Stewart?" He is deadly calm. Smiling. Always smiling.

"Yes..." is the timid response, shuffling fills the audio.

"Say it." It's not a request. It's a command.

"...What?"

"Say it." The grin grows a fraction more, showing his back teeth. His lip bleeds slightly.

"I don't see how-"

"Megamind," the blue male says strongly, ever grinning, and then leans forward, raising his hands to tap on a piece of paper set on the table. "M-E-G-A-M-I-N-D. All one word. Make sure to write that down."

"Do you want to talk about your injuries?" the doctor asks instead.

"Builds my fear of what's out there," he replies softly, that grin bemused.

"What?" the doctor asks again, confusion in his voice.

"Cannot breathe the open air. Whisper things into my brain, assuring me that I'm insane," he continues on undeterred, staring forward, his voice rising as he speaks. "They think our heads are in their hands."

"I don't... what are you talking about?" the older man's voice is fearful, the fingers on the table trembling as they shuffle papers around. The anxiety is palpable.

He's still grinning.

"But violent use brings violent plans," Megamind sing songs, tilting his head and smiling wide. Then he raises his hands, jangling the restraints around his wrist. "Keep him tied, it makes him well. He's getting better, can't you tell?"

"... Guards? GUARDS?" the doctor calls frantically.

And now his companion is singing, louder and louder with each passing moment, looking for the entire world gleeful.

"No more can they keep us in! Listen, damnit! We will win! They see it right, they see it well, but they think this saves us from our hell!" He's doing quite a performance at this point, singing loudly and happily. He sways from side to side with the beat of the song, hitting his hands rhythmically against the table top while nodding his head.

"Sanitarium!" Slap slap-slap-slap-slap slap goes his fingertips on the table. "Leave me be! Sanitarium, just leave me alone. Sanitarium!"

And now it's time for the big guitar solo. He's up on his feet, swinging his arms as much as the shackles will allow on an invisible instrument, feverishly animating guitar licks with a concentrated look on his face. His head bobs in rapid succession and he's noisily imitating the instrument notes.

His sudden movements send the doctor scattering, evidenced by the slap of papers on the floor, and the clatter of both their chairs hitting the floor.

The camera picks up the noise of the door slamming open, and a batch of blue uniformed officers scramble into the room. The singer is oblivious. Even as they jump onto him, grabbing him by his arms and trying to contain his exaggerated movements, he's singing.

"Just leave me alone!" he bellows musically, laughing as he disappears off of camera, and there's a solid grunting thud of a body hitting a hard surface. Again and again, there are groans, the solid pounding of flesh into flesh. He's humming. Singing between blows, gasping and laughing and yelling all at once, delirious.

"Fear of –UGH!- living on, natives getting restless now! HAH! Oof-! Mu-.. mutiny in the air, got some death to do hehehe! Ah! Mirror stares back hard," he screams, his voice hitching with effort, breath heavy and panting, pain seeping into the tone. But you can almost hear the smile on his face.

Shadows move rapidly through the room as the scuffle continues and suddenly the camera is full of only his battered face, blood seeping out the corner of his mouth. His face is pressed hard into the table, a hand on the back of his large head holding him down. He continues to struggle wincing as he is detained.

But he grins.

"Kill is such a friendly word," he whispers in a soft melodic way out the corner of his mouth, staring into the camera. "Seems the only way for reaching out again." His wound is reopened, blood brilliant against his blue bruised skin as it slides down his brow, dribbling slowly across his vision. Sweat beads on his flesh and as he stares straight forward, his eyes are cloudy, his breath coming in raspy heaves. The table gleams red.

"Shut it off. Shut off the camera!"a voice hisses off screen.

He still smiles.

The screen goes black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:** So I've had this second chapter kicking around for a while now, and well.. I dunno. It's a whole new sort of style for me. Experimenting with writing recently to challenge myself, and to move away from my normal style - which is to describe things in terrible detail and throw in a lot of internal thought processes. So I give you a chapter that is entirely dialogue. It'll either be good or terrible. It makes sense to me, but tell me if it ends up being a miss for anyone. I find that sometimes my dialogue is my weak part - I feel like I have to use excessive description of the speaker in order to get the emotion/tone I want from the speech. So I hoped that by relying purely on dialogue, I could practice this a bit better. Either way, this chapter, we hear from the Warden, the Scott's, and the local media about Megamind and Metro Man, at various points in their history. Also... sorry for posting this so late! It's already been out on Livejournal for a couple days, and I've just been too busy to post. Gah.

**Warnings:** None. This chapter is totally tame. Just potentially confusing... .;;

**Disclaimer:** 'Megamind' and all its characters are owned by _Dreamworks. _I own nothing.

* * *

><p>"The Warden will now take questions from the press."<p>

"Warden! Warden! Over here! Jennifer Rapley, Metro City Herald. Can you respond to the allegations that your prison has been harbouring a known extra-terrestrial being for the past four years?"

"The Metro City Prison for the Criminally Gifted and all of its personnel has conducted themselves with the interest of all prisoners and the public in mind. What we have done and continue to do is in the best interest of all those involved."

"That doesn't answer the question. Is there an alien child within your prison?"

"..."

"Warden?"

"There is a child present. I can neither confirm nor deny his origin as being alien... But I assure you, aside from being too smart for his own good, the child is harmless."

"Warden!"

"Warden, over here!"

"Sir! Alan Jameson, reporting for KMCP 8 News! How did the prison come to have this child?"

"He was abandoned. Our facilities are the only home he's ever had."

"Why has it taken so long for the prison to make this public?"

"For protection of the child, and the populace at large, we have maintained confidentiality of his existence until the appropriate authorities could be brought in."

"Metro City Gazette here. Our readers will want to know, should the populace at large be on alert? How dangerous is this alien?"  
>"He's harmless. Just a kid, like any other."<p>

"What sort of authorities have been brought in to deal with this child?"

"Psychologists. Researchers. Government officials."

"Do you have any names for these professionals?"

"I think you've asked enough questions."

"Metro News, online edition, over here! How is it possible that the child has been allowed to remain in the prison's care? Where is the government in all of this? How can a prison be a fit place to raise a child, alien or not?"

"Look, this boy landed in our laps. Here, in Metro City. He's ours, whether we like it or not. I don't know where he's from, but this is the safest place for him to be. Safe for him, and safe for you. He's got papers now. He's a Metro City resident."

"And that makes him a criminal? You're housing an innocent behind bars! He's come to share his knowledge of the world's beyond and you're imprisoning him to do your tests and torture! Free the alien!"

"Who said that?"

"Set him free! He's just a child!"

"Who are you?"

"We're from the Metro City Extra Terrestrial Society! And we are here to protest the unjustified capture and abuse of a living being; a child no less! Free the alien!"

"Free E.T.! Free E.T.! Free E.T.!"

"Get them out of here!"

"Warden! Warden, another question!"

"Warden, over here!"

"Sir, a question!"

"Does the child have a name?"

"What does it look like?"

"Free E.T.!"

"Is there any connection with the December meteor landing, four years ago? With the Scott's boy?"

"Is it true there is a child _and_another creature?"

"How can the prison legally confine a minor?"

"Free E.T.! Free E.T.!"

"Is it true the government has been involved in a conspiracy to keep the alien hidden from the public?"

"Has there been any contact with other planets in relation to the child?"

"What about the recent rumours that the government is planning on executing the alien child?"

"FREE E.T.!"

"Will the child be allowed out into the public at any point?"

"Is it true that tax-payer dollars are being put toward the child's care?"

"Free E.T.! You can't hide him forever Warden!"

"No comment! This press conference is over!"

* * *

><p>"First of all, thank you so much for allowing us to conduct this interview."<p>

"Oh, it's no problem at all."

"So, Mr. and Mrs. Scott, our viewers are very interested in your unique family."

"Yes, we are a happy family, isn't that right dear?"

"Mmm? Oh yes, of course darling."

"Can you tell us about your son Wayne?"

"Wayne? Yes, our boy is quite the character."

"How old is he now?"

"10. And quite the handsome little man too! Right dear?"

"Of course honey."

"Did you know our son is such a talent with music? He's so gifted. He goes to a private school, for children like himself. He's just so bright."

"I'm sure he is, Mrs. Scott. But I was hoping you could tell us a little about his more... special qualities?"

"He's just recently picked up the ukulele, you know. He's already excelling at his piano lessons, naturally, but I do think he enjoys the string instruments. We may push him towards the violin, because it's such an intellectual pursuit."

"His powers, Mrs. Scott?"

"Oh, yes, those. Well, of course, our son is exceptionally gifted."

"Tell us more."

"Wayne, well, he's always been a very strong child."

"Strong? How so?"

"Lifting his crib, cars, people, things like that. Right dear?"

"Yes, whatever you like."

"Honestly, darling, could you put down the paper? We're on the news."

"Hmm?"

"The news, darling. We're on it... Yes, Wayne has shown many talents since he was a baby."

"Is it correct to say that your son is able to fly?"

"Oh my yes, he's quite good at that. Really is very helpful while decorating for the holidays. Did you know we've won the West End Neighbourhood Committee's Christmas Cheer Contest eight years in a row?"

"That's... wonderful Mrs. Scott. But about your son..."

"Yes, he does enjoy helping. Although sometimes he complains-"

"Mrs. Scott, I hate to be a bother, but your son's powers..."

"Oh very well... Yes, Wayne has what you would call, super-powers. Laser vision, strength, flight... He cannot be hurt. I'm sure there's more I'm missing, but it's hard to remember it all."

"That's very interesting! Have you any idea how he came to have these powers?"

"He's always had them, from our knowledge."

"Is he your biological son?"

"He's our son."

"Mr. Scott?"

"He's our son as far as anyone is concerned, biological or not. He came to us, and he is our son."

"He's our miracle."

"That's wonderful. I understand that your son has been helping around the community?"

"Oh haha, yes, he has become quite the little hero."

"Can you tell me about the events of last week?"

"Oh, the little boy?"

"Yes, that's right. Wayne saved the life of a small child, did he not?"

"That's right. Unfortunate story, really. The fire took the family's home I understand, but Wayne was able to find the little boy before it was too late."

"That's very heroic."

"We're so proud of him, using his powers for good and all that. You know, we're very influential in the community. He must have gotten his sense of charity from us."

"I'm sure he did. Do you see a future for your son as, perhaps, a super hero? A real-world Superman?"

"We'd like him to become Senator."

"... I see. One last question. I understand that your son attended the... let me see... Lil' Gifted School for Lil' Gifted Kids, right?"

"Yes... That's correct."

"There was an incident, three years ago, involving another student."

"Oh."

"I don't suppose you could talk a little abou-"

"We don't talk about... that day."

"I'm sorry?"

"We don't know anything."

"So you don't have any information about the young boy from the Metro City Priso-"

"I said we don't talk about that."

"Some sources claim that your son may have connections to the alien child. They attended the same school for some time. And they're both very unique. Almost... out of this world?"

"I don't care for what you're insinuating. Wayne is our son, and he is a good boy. Nothing like that... thing. I think I've said all I have to say on the subject."

"...Yes, well thank you very much for your time."

* * *

><p>"I tell ya, it was the damn near scariest thing I ever seen."<p>

"Yea man, it was like... crazy. Seriously."

"Can you tell me what you saw that day?"

"Well, first, like... seriously? I never thought something like this would happen to me, you know?"

"Ya, it was terrifyin', is what it was. Mike here, and me, we was just sittin', mindin' our own-"

"Totally minding our own business, you know?"

"And then all of a sudden, there's this big... BANG!"

"Yea, like KAPLOW! You know, like some movie type shit."

"I damn near wet myself."

"Totally. He did."

"Where did this occur?"

"Oh. Oh yea, like... we were at the Flying K, you know? The truck stop down, like, RIGHT near the prison."

"Awful spot to have a truck stop, you ask me. Murderers waltzin' outta that jail, jackin' us poor truckers. We're just tryin'a do our honest days work. Know a boy down the line, got his head clean blasted off by escaped convict. Dangerous world out there, Ma'am."

"And what happened after the explosion? That day when you saw the escapee?"

"Oh yea, man, like seriously? It was CRAZY. Like, there was smoke EVERYWHERE."

"Couldn't hardly see nothin'."

"Nothing man. Seriously. And then, this... like robot thing-"

"Nah, it was a fish!"

"Bill, it was a robot."

"Well, sure as shoot had a fish fer a head."

"There was a second man there? In a costume like a robot?"

"Costume's don't move like dat."

"No way man."

"And there was a livin', breathin' fish up in that tank on top."

"Fish don't breathe Bill!"

"They breathe water, don't they?"

"Gentlemen, please. If you could continue?"

"Right, right. Well... this... fish-robot thing comes walking out of the smoke, like something from Mars Attacks, right? You know that movie?"

"One with the little green critters. Heads explode with country music."

"Yes, I'm familiar with that film."

"Yea, well it was totally just like that! Out comes this robot thin-"

"Fish."

"Shut up Bill and lemme tell the story! Right, out that thing walks, and then there's another one! And dude, seriously? Seriously? His head was like THIS."

"Another robot?"

"No-no-no man, an ALIEN."

"Just like dem aliens in that movie."

"Would you say he was wearing a mask?"

"I... I don't think so."

"Not any sort a' mask I ever seen."

"Would have to be like... a real custom job, you know? So life-like. You could see his mouth moving. Just like the aliens in the movies. 'Cept he was like... normal height, you know? And blue."

"Blue as my suede shoes, Ma'am. Swear on mah momma's grave."

"And what happened after that?"

"Well, he pulls out this like, glowing gun thing. He was all dressed in, like, you know... orange jumpsuit, from the prison? Just like on TV."

"And out he whips this contraption, glowin' like a neon sign. Ain't never seen no gun like that in all my days."

"Yea man, it was CRAZY. And he just starts laughin' his head off, aiming it at people."

"Crazy as a loon he was."

"What did you gentlemen do when he pulled the weapon?"

"Got the hell out of there!"

"Ma'am, I got a wife and kids at home. I gotta protect mahself, fer their sake."

"We ducked down behind a table, cuz we were like, eating in the restaurant, right?"

"What did the attacker want?"

"What you think he wanted? Money!"

"Oh yea, man, he like cleaned them OUT. Took everything. And food too!"

"Food?"

"Yes Ma'am. Him an' that unnatural creation, well they loaded themselves up with grub. Like they hadn't eaten in days. Doughnuts 'specially. Damn near had a conniption fit, he did, when he saw they had doughnuts. Like my boy done acted on Christmas opening one o' them gamin' boxes. Y Box? Z Box?"

"X Box, Bill. God, you're like a dinosaur."

"Shut yer trap Mike."

"What happened after that?"

"Well, they like... just kind of backed out of the big hole they blasted out of the wall, and ran off."

"Did you happen to see where they fled to?"

"No Ma'am. We was too busy thankin' the good Lord for savin' our skins that day."

"Was anyone injured during this attack?"

"You know, I don't think so? I mean, like maybe some old guy had a heart attack or somethin', but he never fired that gun. We were all just so, you know, freaked out that we didn't try anything."

"What you think we could have done? Fought that there robot? No-siree. I'm real sorry for them owners that got robbed and all, but I thank the Lord Jesus we made it out alive."

"There you have it. Firsthand accounts from two witnesses of the recent escaped convict from the Metro City Prison for the Criminally Gifted. Back to you Mark."

"Thanks Whitney. Again, that was Whitney Chen, KMCP 8's on-the-scene reporter, live. We want to remind our viewers that this individual, calling himself Megamind, is to be considered armed and very dangerous. We stress that the public is not to attempt to confront this individual, but should immediately contact local authorities and retreat to safety. If you have any information on the whereabouts of this dangerous felon, please contact emergency services. And now, let's go to Julie Anderson live from Metro City Prison for the Criminally Gifted. Julie?"

"Yes Mark."

"Now Julie, do you have any information about this current situation for the viewers at home?"

"Yes Mark. I have been, at this time, unable to speak with the Warden of this facility but what we know right now is that this individual's name is Megamind and this is his tenth escape to date. However, this is the first escape enacted by this prisoner in which he has threatened the lives of citizens in Metro City."

"What else do we know about Megamind at this time?"

"He has been a resident of this prison for many years. It has been well known for some time that the prison has had within its walls an extra-terrestrial being, and some viewers may recall an incident at a local one room school house for the gifted, nearly thirteen years ago where scandal broke out. The child once referred to as 'harmless' and simply 'too smart for his own good' then became a state wide person of interest. Controversy has surrounded this penitentiary and its Warden for nearly twenty years now in relation to the child, and his behaviour has continued to spiral dangerously out of control. He is now an escaped prisoner of this jail, considered very dangerous and the police have yet to locate his whereabouts."

"Tell us Julie, what makes this prisoner so dangerous?"

"It's his intelligence Mark. Reports have verified that this individual has been tested with well over genius levels of IQ. He has escaped ten times from this high security facility, often using extremely sophisticated and complex plans for his break-outs. He has also displayed an uncanny ability to develop and create weapons of increasingly more dangerous designs."

"What sorts of weapons?"

"Mostly those built to help him escape. Just last year, he was able to create a levitation device of sorts, that enabled him to rise over the fenced area you see behind me, out of scrap metal and wiring from electrical boxes around the prison, as well as a riot shield. He was later shot down by the prison marksmen from that tower, and sustained non-life threatening injuries before being detained and re-admitted to the prison."

"Any ideas Julie on how he made his daring escape this time?"

"He evidently escaped via a complex espionage involving several guards, inmates, and a large amount of chemical compounds."

"Chemical compounds, Julie?"

"That's right Mark. Reports are that this individual was able to form a crude incendiary device with common household and industrial cleaners found in the prison, as well as various toiletries that inmates are afforded for regular hygiene. The bomb was set off sometime around 3:15 PM yesterday, causing mass hysteria and injuring four guards on duty. The explosion gave time for the escapee to disguise himself in an officer's uniform, slipping out of detainment among others during a mandatory evacuation of the affected area."

"Are you saying that he was able to walk out of the prison without being noticed?"

"It is unclear exactly how he accomplished this, Mark. Speculation is that he received aid from outside the prison, evidenced by the damage to this fence you see behind me. The burn marks and melted metal here are extensive and authorities state that it would have taken someone, on their own, more than thirty minutes to do this form of damage without the aid of some sort of... intense heat source and machinery. It is unclear at this point if he has developed yet another dangerous weapon for this purpose."

"Is there any information in support of eye witness testimonies stating the suspect has a companion, described as being a... robot or space-aged android of some sort?"

"There are some eye witness reports testifying to that, yes, but if there is any sort of physical evidence to support that, we have not received word of it from either the Warden or the Chief of Police."

"Interesting. Julie, do the authorities have any leads on where this prisoner may be?"

"At this time, the Metro City Police Department has not released a statement, but a press conference has been scheduled for later today. The MCPD is scouring the city for this man, running on key witness testimony for their investigation. No word yet on any hot leads."

"Thank you Julie."

"You're welcome Mark."

"That was Julie Anderson from outside of the Metro City Prison for the Criminally Gifted, if you're just joining us. The city is on high alert this evening, for the escaped prisoner going only by the name Megamind. He is described, based on a stock photo, as standing 5'5", somewhere in his late teens, early twenties, appearing to have blue skin and an enlarged head. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of this individual, please contact your local authorities. He is to be considered armed and very dangerous. We'll continue to bring you news as it develops, right after these messag—What? Wait, this just in. I'm being told that we're going live to Bradley Baker, our man on the street. Brad, are you there?"

"Hello Mark!"

"Brad, I can barely hear you, what's happening?"

"History in the making Mark! I'm here, live on location at Hot Crossed Buns Bakery, downtown Metro City, where grateful patrons, MCPD and passerbys alike are rejoicing! Delicious pastries and hot lattes aren't the only things on the menu today, because one unlucky crook in this quaint little shop was also served a steaming plate of justice!"

"Bradley, am I seeing things correctly?"

"You sure are Mark! Behind me you see the end result of a heroic good deed by one of Metro City's own local celebrities! That's right, our very own Wayne Scott, boy wonder and son to the prestigious Scott family, has captured and subdued Megamind!"

"Am I to understand that Megamind is now back within police custody?"

"That's right! Just moments ago, young Mr. Scott, a recent graduate of Metro City High, made a daring entrance to the bakery and cafe after hearing what he claimed was the silent alarm triggered by the shop owner, Barb MacIntosh. Barb, can you describe the events of today?"

"It was terrifying! He just came crashing in, with this huge robot, pointing that gun at everyone, demanding money, food, and everyone's cell phones and computers... I didn't know what to do!"

"Do you know the identity of the robbers?"

"That... Megamind, from the news!"

"And then what happened?"

"Well, I hit the alarm when he was distracted, and suddenly, Wayne came flying in like some sort of... of super-hero! He was so quick, and was able to knock that gun away. Oh goodness, if he hadn't been here, I don't know what I'd do. I think we all owe him our lives!"

"Thanks Barb. You can guess what happens after that, Mark. Patrons have told me that the two struggled in hand to hand combat, yelling and what one witness described as BANTERING back and forth. But Wayne easily out powered the robber, and used a metal railing that once stood here at the counter to wrap around his opponent, effectively subduing the criminal before any harm could come to the customers of the store."

"Bradley, is there any news on the whereabouts of Megamind's accomplice?"

"Sadly, it seems that during the scuffle, the other gunman escaped just before the Metro City Police Department arrived on sight, responding to the alarm as well. Only they were in for quite a surprise when they rushed to the scene and found that someone had beaten them... to the punch! Hahaha, isn't that right Wayne!"

"Hahaha, that's right Bradley. I'm just doing what any citizen would do if given the chance."

"Tell us Wayne, how does it feel to use those special powers of yours to take out a criminal like Megamind?"

"Well Brad, it feels good. I'm happy to do whatever I can to help keep our fair city safe for everyone."

"Spoken like a real man! Might I even say... Metro City's best man? Hahaha!"

"Metro City's Man, eh? Hah, it has a nice ring to it!"

"Well thank you so much Wayne, and I think I speak for everyone when I say we're happy to have you be a part of our city and I for one, feel a little safer out on those streets."

"Glad to help Bradley."

"There you have it! The day is saved, the bad guy is behind bars once again, and dare I say it? A new hero is born! This is Bradley Baker, signing off for KMCP 8 News! Back to you, Mark!"


End file.
